


TMR:The Machiavellian's Revival

by Mizudoriko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Are y'all proud of me now?, How Do I Tag, Magic, Non-traditional uses for Magic, POV Tom Riddle, Sane Tom Riddle, Teenage Tom Riddle, This is all about dear old Tom, Tis unfortunate, Welp. I went ahead and wrote a Tom Riddle insert, Young Tom Riddle, all the magic, some world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2020-10-05 06:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizudoriko/pseuds/Mizudoriko
Summary: Or he’s being dramatic again.Harry? Potter.Dumbledore? Can stuff it because the next great adventure should have come with an instruction manual.Tom? Riddle.“Riddle me this, riddle me that. I am a what now? Dumbledore, put out that fire right now, my wardrobe does not lead to Narnia or so help me God I will start screaming profanities.”Oh and:Hotel? Trivago.In which an unfortunate soul has the dubious "fortune" of being thrown into the body of one Tom Riddle and they're having none of it. Canon can go sideways, all they want is to have fun and avoid becoming a dark lord.(Or if they do become a dark lord since it sounds pretty fun, be smarter than their canon counterpart about it)





	1. Tomorrow Might Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tavina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tavina/gifts).

> I don't own Harry Potter, just my original ideas. Nor am I making any money off of this. (It would be nice if I had writing as a job though, that would be cool. School takes up most of my time)

I won’t bore you with the details of my birth because, honestly, I’m trying to forget them myself. Why would anyone want to remember the horrible sensation of—_ ahem _ . All I will say is that it was an awfully cold day, given that it _ was _ December thirty-first. Not that I knew it back then, my senses were limited to cold and my emotional range had broken down with the arrow permanently stuck at hatred for the world at large. My first contribution to the cacophony of sounds life is known for was a pathetic _ mewl _.

It was _ supposed _to have been a strident and offended,

“What the actual fuck.”

But no. Babies aren’t allowed to curse. Newborns can only scream and cry. Articulating our displeasure is strictly limited to caveman noises and tears.

Nope. Prohibited. No cursing. No getting angry at the world for being an absolute _ ass. _

And guess what I ended up as? 

A baby. An _ugly, newborn baby. _

Thankfully, the processes involved with birth seemed to have sapped any meager strength I had as a newborn, so I fell asleep pretty quickly after raging about my situation.

Mother dearest kicked the bucket sometime after I was dreaming dreams of violently shaking imaginary deities for my predicament. I would be more upset about the whole affair, but I’m a baby, I can’t even manage to roll over without falling asleep midroll from exhaustion. 

Which is where I am right now, one of my rare moments of clarity. Obviously, this means I must grandly narrate my life...in my head. What is truly pathetic is that I don’t even know how much time has passed since my birth. The only reason why I know my birthday is on the thirty-first of December is because of a passing remark of one of my caretakers mentioning that I would have been a New Year’s baby if I’d been born seven hours later. I did the math and figured that I was born in the coldest month of the year. Well, I don’t know if December is actually the coldest month of the year, but I like to think of it that way. Any month with snow is too cold for my temperate tastes.

I don’t know where I am. My mother had died, I know that much from my surprisingly chatty caretaker. Do I have a father? I don’t know. My eyes can’t see much beyond blurry objects and I can’t move my body much at all. All that remains unhindered is my hearing, which seems to be functioning just fine. 

My musings are distracted by the insistent gnawing of hunger demanding that I make my needs known.

_ Is it that time again? _

Alright, time to summon the minion.

I open my mouth and wail loudly, making soft shuffling sounds as I wave my arms about in the crib. Hurried footsteps echo outside and a door opens.

“Tom? What’s wrong?”

Ah yes, my name is Tom. I don’t know why, but the three-letter name sounds like a death knell from hell. It’s probably my overly dramatic brain making things up again. I’d reply to her, but I can’t manage anything more than a gurgle so I stay silent. Why say anything when I don’t have anything good to say?

My caretaker walks closer, her footsteps getting louder. Her face peeks over the edge of my crib, my own personal glorified prison. 

“You don’t need a diaper change…”

I squirm in her grasp, her fingers are _ cold. _Nope, I do not need a diaper change. Thank you for putting me through the indignity of checking. We go through this game of charades every time.

“Are you hungry?” She questions.

If I could sigh without it being unnerving, I would. Why else would I make a fuss? I make sure to be as quiet and well behaved as I can when I don’t need anything. Why put someone else through the suffering that I’m going through? Okay, so maybe it isn’t out of the goodness of my heart and more that being upset takes a lot of energy.

It’s also why I’m not bothering to freak out about being a baby.

Again.

Granted, I don’t remember the first time, I’d been an actual baby then. But now I’m a baby with a teenage consciousness?

Whatever, babies are _ weird _.

I’m handed a bottle and I dutifully chug the contents as quickly as I can. Soon after my hunger is satiated, I drift off into sleep. 

* * *

“Who’s a good boy? You are, Tom!” My caretaker waggles her fingers in my face. I get that it’s supposed to make me laugh or something, but all I feel is irritation. I try to bat her fingers away, but my active participation in her little game only motivates her. 

I’ve suffered through months of being a baby, give me a break. I know that it’s been at least four months because I’ve been keeping track of changes in my caretaker’s outfit. Why would someone change clothes multiple times in a single day? If her clothes are different, then it must be a new day. I might sleep a lot, but I can’t sleep through an entire day without needing something like a diaper change or being fed multiple times.

While it isn’t a foolproof way to keep track and I’d forgotten the number of days a couple of times, it’s something to keep me occupied and a better idea than the others. Like tallying the days. Scratching tally marks onto my crib is out of the question as people would notice, it’s too much trouble, and my fingernails are ridiculously soft.

Martha frowns,

“You really aren’t much of a talker, are you, Tom?” 

Well, considering that I literally _ can’t, _ I’d agree with you. I’m just happy I don’t have to learn a whole new language. The British accent is concerning, but I doubt that it’d be too hard to fake one after more exposure.

“Well, your mother was even stranger than you, that’s for certain. All we got out of her was your name before she died, poor woman.”

Yes, yes, we’ve been here before. Please say something interesting.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle, I’d say the last name fits perfectly, don’t you think? You’re such a quiet mysterious child.”

What.

“She said she hoped that you’d take after your father rather than her,” Martha bends down to scrutinize me a little closer, unaware of my existential crisis, “You don’t seem to be suffering from any of her...defects.”

What.

“You have the prettiest blue eyes too!” Martha laughs, “ I just wish you weren’t so quiet.”

“Martha! Billy and Alice are fighting again!” Another woman’s voice echoes in the room. Martha quickly straightens up and makes her way to the door.

“I’ll be right there!” She calls, leaving me alone again.

_ I’m so screwed._

* * *

I am Tom. Riddle. Tom _ Marvolo the Darkest Dark Lord of all History Also Called Voldemort _Riddle. I stare at the dirty ceiling of Wool’s Orphanage blankly, at least now I know where I ended up.

Yay. Do I get a consolation prize? No?

I want a refund.

_ So what if you died? So what if you found out that you’ve been reincarnated as the most cliche villain of all time? _

I _ deserve _ a refund. I didn’t sign up for any of this bullshit.

_ Get your ass into shape and fucking take the world by storm. Who gives a shit about Fate or Destiny? Make your own path. _

Someone kill me with a brick now to spare me the misfortune and existential crises. Please. I don’t want to become a monster. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes and I open my mouth to desperately suck in air. Air that seems to be escaping me no matter how fast I breathe.

_ Mom would be so disappointed in you, you had fifteen years of an idyllic life. Now you don’t. But that doesn’t mean you can’t claw a place for yourself in this world. _

And so, for the first time ever since my rebirth, I cry.

_ So what if you feel cheated? _

_ Count your blessings and move _ ** _on._ **

I close my eyes and open them again, resigned in my new identity as Tom Marvolo Riddle. All of the memories from before are still there, carefully nestled in a corner of my mind. I’m still me...but it’s time I accepted my new identity with dignity and grace. Crying won’t solve any of my problems.

Screwing with canon might.

* * *

Soon after my new discovery of my identity and after I got over the fact that wifi won’t be invented until I’m seventy, I reached the mind-boggling, earth-shattering, and world-ending realization that…

Oh shit, magic is _ real _.

Yes, I reached this conclusion rather late, but wifi is a serious concern and I don’t care about magic enough to—alright I do care about magic very much and I’m honestly considering setting a bunch of things on fire just for the sake of watching them burn. I am not an arson.

Fiendfyre just seems so _ fascinating. _

Ahem.

I’m definitely not a budding pyromaniac either, even though solving all of my problems by killing them with fire sounds _ wonderfully therapeutic. _

But back to the magic issue, I’m Tom Riddle, aka the Dark Doofus, and that means if I don’t have magic I might as well be obsolete.

The plot has no use for non-magical people, the prime example of Muggles are the Dursley’s for Pete’s sake, if I don’t have magic I’m as good as the most irrelevant footnote in the book that is called history. Well, not having magic might actually be a good thing, it also means I won't have to deal with the idiocy that is called wizards.

Decisions, decisions, to be magical, or to be a muggle, that is the question.

My quality of life might be better if I’m not a wizard, but that’s highly unlikely given that magic is basically the ultimate cheat code to the game of life. Provided that I don’t act like a kid handed a lighter and given free rein to go crazy, I might get myself a pretty sweet life without all of the drama.

Speaking of drama, isn’t the Second World War set to happen sometime after I get shipped off to Hogwarts? 

_ Forget being a muggle, if I don’t get my hands on some magic I might die again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be sporadic. I might take a looong time to come back to this, it depends on how much time school takes.
> 
> As for the title? I just googled cool words that would make the acronym of TMR.


	2. Too Many Rabbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter!

Being a baby does have its perks, the days pass quickly despite being dreadfully boring. I spend most of my time teetering on the edge of consciousness and sleep. When I am awake, I ponder life’s great mysteries and the question to the answer of forty-two. In fact, I spent an entire week debating which came first, the chicken or the egg.

Now, I can with great certainty state that…

I have no idea. 

But evolutionary wise, there must have been an animal that laid eggs first, it doesn’t make sense for an egg to suddenly pop out of thin air. With that being said, the animal that laid said egg was probably not even close to a chicken. Distant relatives? Most probably. Actually a chicken? Not so much. 

So when did a chicken become a chicken? It had to have come out of an egg first because physical mutations don’t get passed down unless genes are altered.

And now I have another headache.

The true question isn’t which came first, to answer that, the definition of chicken must first be established.

What _ is chicken?!! _ Is it a mineral? A metal? A vegetable? It’s an omnivorous bird that is commonly used as food, I know, just let me have my moment.

In short, I am not actually doing anything productive at all.

I’ll figure out how to stop procrastinating later.

* * *

Alright, so maybe I’ve been too lazy. At six months, I haven’t really been doing much beyond eat, sleep, and staring at the ceiling while trying to figure out philosophical questions of morality.

I have no idea what babies are supposed to be able to do except that they start talking at about eight to twelve months. Crawling might happen at six months, though I’m probably wrong in that regard. But I need to start moving more or people will start to notice. Martha has already become skittish in my company.

In most stories, there is a convenient sibling or other babies to use as a basis for being a baby. But since this isn’t a story, I only have myself and other annoying toddlers who like to try and poke me.

I mean, I don’t know how babies are supposed to act as I don’t remember anything from the first time around. Most of my time is spent dead silent staring off and zoning out, at least it looks like that to other people. Martha might have caught me in one too many of my disassociative lapses in reality. I can only imagine what it is like seeing a baby completely unresponsive to outside stimulus for extended periods of time.

Well, time to start reaching all my baby milestones again.

* * *

_ Come on, you can do this. It’s just one roll. _

I try to give myself a pep talk while squirming my mushy muscles to flip myself onto my stomach. Given the amount of progress I’ve made so far, which is absolutely none, I’m failing at being a baby.

I flop back onto my back, exhausted.

_ Okay, maybe start with something smaller, like better coordination of limbs and digits. _

My left arm flails.

_ Success! _

Then the right, followed by my legs. 

_ Motor control test passed. Now let’s move onto using them to do things like flipping over. _

I fail in flipping over again. Showing off a skill I already learned previously does nothing for my inability to use another.

_ This will take a while, won’t it?_

* * *

_ Finally _, I finally managed one flip. It only took five kicks with each foot and two minutes of arm flailing every day for two whole weeks to accomplish this momentous feat.

Now it’s getting uncomfortable, my face squished into the wooden bars and blankets bunched awkwardly underneath me.

_ Great, time to start walking._

* * *

Surprise, surprise, there is a very good reason as to why babies don’t immediately go from flipping to walking. Sitting hasn’t happened yet, which means the back has no practice with being upright and supporting the head. Not to mention the legs aren’t even close to being strong enough to support the weight of the entire body.

At least I’m a master of rolling now. I can roll like the Rock of Ages without all of the unfortunate deaths and falling off the map.

I’ve also started teething, Lord, give me patience because I’m about to start screaming. My blanket has been transformed into a chew toy for my poor abused gums.

* * *

I can sit. I can roll. I can grab my blanket and throw it in your face.

Sorta. I can grab my blanket and then flail my arm. It does absolutely nothing beyond making me tired, but I’ll take what I can get. I can also grab my blanket and stuff it in my mouth, much to the displeasure of Martha because she is the one who wrinkles her nose in disgust when she takes it away from me. I assume she’s the one that gets it washed.

Guess I’ll just have to start chewing on the bars of my crib. I will accomplish walking someday, and the bars will help greatly in figuring out how to stand.

_ Mission revised, time to break out of prison. By chewing through it or by climbing, whichever comes first._

* * *

It only took me eight months to become fully mobile, well, as fully mobile as I can be while confined to a crib. I can safely say that I have one hell of a learning curve. I still crash into things and stumble a lot, but I have regained some semblance of independence. This time, I’m smart enough to try and limit my impromptu practice sessions at night and spend my days sleeping or wiggling while trying to talk.

And chewing on every available surface, but I’m going to pretend that’s not happening and that I have standards.

I’m pretty sure it isn’t normal to leave a baby in a crib for eight months without letting it out to crawl or do something. The crib is small, but the floor is dirty with many hazards for small toddlers. I guess that’s why I’m not allowed out of my little island, the rest of the orphanage staff don’t have time or want to expend the effort of keeping an eye on me. I’m the youngest here, none of them care enough for children to even consider the negative impacts this confinement can have on my development.

Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a normal baby then. I’ll become the best baby ever. Soon, everyone will forget how unnerving I was during the last few months. Kissing up to the adults will definitely afford me a better life, I will need all the help I can get to survive this.

* * *

_ Yeet. _

Martha lifts me out of my crib like she has done many times before to change my diaper. But this time, I clearly do not need a diaper change so I can only assume I will be allowed out of my solitary confinement.

She sets me on the floor, clearly expecting me to crawl or maybe sit still like I’ve been doing in my crib.

_ Gotta go fast! _

I pick myself up and toddle my way to the door, ready to go on my first adventure.

“Tom! No, get back here!” Two hands wrap around my middle and I turn my head to gaze questioningly at Martha. Her shell shocked expression is worth the indignity of being carried and having my quest interrupted.

“When did you learn how to walk?!”

“Yee.” I still haven’t developed any recognizable control over my vocal cords yet. I can make sounds similar to what I want to say, but I can’t really say anything because Billy is two years older than me and he can only form simple sentences with many grammatical and pronunciation errors.

“I suppose I can put you with the other children in the playpen. But you have to be good, alright?”

Lady, when am I not good? When am I not the bestest boy in the whole wide world? Besides, how come I am only getting an invite to the cool kid’s party now?

Martha carries me through a series of rooms and down a hallway with plaster chipping at corners. I turn my head this way and that, taking in the new sights and trying to memorize the way back to my room.

“Hey, this is Tom,” Martha smiles reassuringly at me while I stand silently next to her, “All of you be nice and play with him, okay?”

With that, she leaves me with children ranging from two to ten, from what I can tell at least.

“Great, we get stuck with the freaky baby.”

I turn to face the voice, eyebrows drawn down in a frown,

“Ru’e.” 

_ We eat the rude. _

Time to play with the big kids, let’s see how long it takes before I have all of them wrapped around my finger. After all, I just have to act the cute adorable baby that I am and watch the magic happen. Hopefully, that is all it takes, I have no experience with manipulating people but children are more malleable than most adults. I just need to practice, besides, since children are so ignorant, my mistakes might fly over their heads.

I pray that they all have selective memory loss that works in my favor.

Seeing everyone’s expectant gaze, I quickly readjust my expression into a happy smile,

“P’ay?”

A boy about nine rolls his eyes and holds out a hand for me to take,

“I’ll babysit him until Martha comes back. Nice to meet you, Tom. I’m David.”

The sensation of cold water travels down my arm and gathers at my fingertips, I give it a cursory glance, but I can’t tell anything out of the ordinary. Passing it off as my imagination, I slide my hand into David’s.

“H’lo, ‘id.”

And then David keels over.

There goes my good first impression, time to bust out the waterworks.

_ Goddammit, magic. _


	3. That Magic Rules

Crying is exhausting, in case that little factoid has escaped the notice of people. Crying is even more exhausting when you're a small child of nine months.

I'm crying.

Because I'm a baby of nine months and crying on cue is easier than falling over. Falling over is very easy, I fall over even when I don't want to. Meaning, the art of falling on cue hasn't been completely mastered since the point of falling over on cue is so that I fall when _I_ want to, not when something so stupid as underdeveloped muscles decide to lose to gravity.

David's passed out.

The other children are being particularly unhelpful, where are the hovering adults when you need them? 

Well, time to exercise my impressive baby lungs.

"**_Ma'tha!_**" I wince, it sounds suspiciously like "mother" and I have no intention of calling another person my mother. 

On cue, Martha comes running at my banshee shriek. Upon finding David still passed out on the floor and unawoken by my forced hysterics, she _also _goes into hysterics.

Huh.

Note to self, never trust Martha with anything, she's likely to run around like a headless chicken instead of doing something productive like fixing the problem.

Seeing that she needs a bit of help to get a hold of herself, I use my words like a well-adjusted person that I am definitely not,

"Da'id, 'tha. 'id."

Yes. I am eloquent. I can talk.

I have no issues, shush.

Martha continues screaming unhelpfully. Well, she has her uses, a grown woman screaming is more concerning than a nine-month-old child so soon the Matron comes running over. A dislikeable woman, I've had the displeasure of meeting her a grand total of once.

The screaming hyena also occasionally called Martha stops because the Matron is never a good person to cross. With the two of them trying to revive David, they actually succeed. David wakes up with a start and looks around foggily,

"Who am I?"

That's a great question, who are we all really? I mean, the answer is forty-two, but the question is important too.

"Where...am I?"

Martha faints, and the Matron frowns heavily like a squashed ostrich.

Oh, now that's more concerning. David might not be having an existential crisis and instead took a nasty fall that caused him to lose his memory. Except David is rather short and he didn't fall very hard. Memory loss inducing falls takes a bit more than collapsing like a house of cards on the floor from a height of four or so feet.

I was trying to ignore how convenient this was with the strange sensation I felt right before David keeled over, but it's not working very well now. I'm pretty sure that was my magic, so surprise, surprise I have magic.

Lovely how it decides to show up now instead of earlier, I suppose that successfully defenestrates my inference that magic stems from the soul. I'm pretty sure I don't have a very magical soul considering I was definitely not magical before in any sense of the word.

Like I said, goddamit magic.

This wasn't what I meant by praying for the selective memory loss of witnesses. That's only for when I do something incriminating, not to _cause_ incriminating moments. 

I try to recall the feeling of water and fix this situation. 

I should have known better really.

The phantom sensation of icy water surges and my body alternates between feeling too hot or freezing like a fever.

Now _everyone_ collapses.

Staring at the piles of bodies, I wonder if this is a good time to return back to my crib and pretend none of this ever happened. 

Yeah, that sounds like a _wonderful_ idea. I don't need impressive semi-accidental magic, I want normal magic that won't set me down the path of the antagonist. Anything remotely possible to set off Plot is a big "no" in my book.

I wander off back to my room and stare at the crib, wondering how to put myself back into it. It takes a couple of tries before I get the newly discovered magic to do what I want.

Martha walks in a minute later and lifts me out of the crib while I stare at her suspiciously. She seems unusually fine for someone who was laid out on the ground earlier. I'm put on the floor and I sit there, looking back at her.

"It's so sad you don't have anyone else your age to play with," then her face brightens, "Oh, I know! I'll put you with some of the older children. You'll fit right in, I just know it."

She picks me up again and we traverse down the same route back to the room with all of the children.

“Hey, this is Tom,” Martha smiles reassuringly at me while I stand silently next to her, “All of you be nice and play with him, okay?”

She leaves me with them. 

All of us stare at each other for a bit.

“Great, we get stuck with the freaky baby.”

I frown, haven't I heard this before?

“P’ay?”

That seems like a safe option. It's the same one I went with last time but I will do my best to make sure nothing weird happens again, this is weird enough already.

“I’ll babysit him until Martha comes back. Nice to meet you, Tom. I’m David.”

David seems to have regained his memories and holds out a hand for me to take, I stare at the hand vacantly, wondering if I should touch him. With how well last time went, I think not. He doesn't seem freaked out for someone who had an impromptu fainting spell from yours truly. 

Or maybe he doesn't remember? Martha didn't seem to remember either.

Did I just...rewind time? I think about it for a long moment, there's no way. Martha reacted differently because I didn't take off running the second time she came to pick me up, but she said essentially the same thing when I was reintroduced. That still doesn't count out time-travel.

No one seems to remember me.

Wait, wait. If no one remembers me, that doesn't necessarily mean I rewound time. I could have just mindwiped everyone of everything that happened recently and somehow when they woke up, they didn't think it was strange and went back to doing what they were going to do right where their memories left off.

Less magic involved. Meaning, I'm not keeling over from exhaustion or dead from attempting something as crazy as _time travel._

Still, what kind of crazy impressive accidental magic is _mindwiping_ everyone?! Was the original Tom this powerful? If so, why didn't he completely demolish wizarding Britain?!

I'm _nine months old!_

What is this ridiculous overpowered-ness?

Ahem, not that I am complaining.

Back to the matter at hand, I shouldn't touch David.

"Oh, come on."

David decides for me and drags me with him to a corner where other children are gathered.

"You sit here and don't do anything, alright?"

Another kid, older this time, snickers,

"David, you know he's like, two months old, right? Can't understand you or anything. He's a _baby._"

Hey, I take offense to that. I'm a fully grown...okay, not so fully grown, but a teenager is still older than you, brat! I can handle this, no problemo!

"Let's just ditch him, we can go outside to play anyway."

Unh, uh. No bueno. I'm not going to be left behind. That's just asking to be left behind _forever._

"'id!" I latch onto David like a mollusk, which is to say, weakly since the phylum includes slugs and snails.

Wait, wasn't I supposed to avoid touching people?

Oops?

Nothing bad happens. This time.

"Leggo, you little bugger!"

I pull out the tears because this calls for a tearful solution,

"'id! 'id! 'id!"

He pales,

"Shush or the Matron might come! I'll take you with me, cool?"

"Well, the baby might understand something after all," the other boy blinks, "I still think it's a fluke."

Yet another boy speaks up,

"Maybe we can give him over to one of the girls, they like playing house and he can be the baby...because he's a baby."

Girls, eh? Whatever, I like them better than you guys right now. Playing house shouldn't be too bad. Been there and done that, didn't even get a t-shirt for surviving the horror that is the terrible twos first time around.

"Okay." Wow, David agreed fast, I thought we had something. 

David drags me over to some girls,

"Hey, Alice! Play with Tom, okay?"

With how red she just turned, I can safely assume she has a massive crush.

At age...seven? Eight? Oh, the terrible, terrible joy of being in the single digits. Wait a couple of years and they'll be throwing fake weddings at age ten or something.

"S-sure! What a-about y-you?"

She can't even form a single, nonstuttering sentence in his presence! I scrutinize David carefully, maybe I should be taking notes. He clearly gets along with other people, a skill I must learn before I can manipulate them.

Wait, I can capitalize on Alice's crush on David! Somehow. I don't know what I should do yet, but I can! The first step to becoming an evil overlord!

When did I decide on taking over the world? I thought I was avoiding Plot?

Well, world domination was last season's fashion anyway, I'll just manipulate people so I don't get bored because I ran out of entertainment.

David gives a strained smile,

"I'm going to play outside with Caelum and Paul."

"Oh."

And my, doesn't someone sound disappointed that her one true love, also called senpai, hasn't noticed her?

David walks away quickly to rejoin his friends, leaving me with Alice and her group of girls. I put on a bright smile and happily wave my hands, eliciting coos.

"Aww, aren't you cute? I know, we can play house and you'll be the baby!"

Looks like the prediction of Caelum was correct.

Well.

Hopefully, he doesn't turn out to be a seer.

He better not.

Caelum is a strange name, heaven or sky if I do recall correctly. It has something to do with Greek or Latin too.

I obediently play along as the perfect baby in a dramatic game of house that has the husband murdered for having a scandalous affair with his wife's best friend who turned out to be the long lost sister.

The wife's or the husband's, I have no idea.

All of the roles are played by girls.

I'm put in a towel skirt because I'm "Rosie".

Oh look, the sister just got murdered and her ex-boyfriend is out for revenge because she was supposed to marry him. Turns out he wasn't her ex-boyfriend but her fiance and she was the adopted heiress of a multimillionaire. Now he is revealed to be a greedy bastard who really only wanted her inheritance, but now he can't get it since she's dead.

Long story short, the wife murdered everyone and pretended to be her own sister, the sister turned out to be hers, to receive the inheritance and went off to travel the world by sailing into the sunset.

And now all of my friends are girls. An improvement really, I came into this with zero friends and left with the most vicious conniving and gossipy besties anyone can ask for. All of them are innocent-faced little monsters. Masters of manipulation until they come face to face with the opposite sex in which they dissolve into puddles of goo.

A hurdle I will get over with time, I'm sure. Being male has to give me an advantage. They are much better role models to learn from than David.

Not that I won't use David to get closer to Alice and stay on her good side, she's the crazy one who decided to murder everybody and the rest of the girls just rolled with it.

All that sweet, sweet blackmail I just received free of charge because I was "adorable".

_Here comes a new and improved Tom, ver. 2.0!_


	4. Be mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a ship. Nor does it have much to do with the future of this fic. I just felt like writing it.

"Here, Potter," I wave a box of chocolate in Harry's face, "Happy Valentine's Day!"

He blinks in shock,

"What _is the Dark Lord doing in Hogwarts!?_"

I tilt my head,

"_That_ is for me to know and you to never figure out."

The expression the last Potter wears would have been amusing if his lack of situational awareness wasn't so concerning,

"How do I know these are not poisoned? Why are you giving me chocolate? Wait, it's Valentine's Day?!"

I sigh, this is the child prophesied to be my ruination?

"How you did not notice the eye-searing pink banners and sorry excuses for cupids, I do not want to know. Unless I have overestimated your intelligence yet again," Harry's face turns an interesting shade of red at that remark, "You are not living up to my expectations. How are you supposed to end my reign of terror again?"

The Gryffindor is incoherent in rage,

"Expelliarmus!"

Maybe not then.

A conjured shield foils the attempt to disarm me,

"You do realize that spell only works if it hits, right?"

Harry is clearly trying to find a reason to justify his failure,

"You're ancient! You shouldn't be that agile!"

I frown,

"Age is only a number, besides, when have I ever looked or acted my age?"

"Shut up."


	5. The Multitudes of Reptiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look there is a snake. I'm going to talk to it like an idiot.

I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to put this in as few words as possible. When I woke up a male in this life, I did _not_ expect to become a cross-dresser.

There. I said it.

Honestly, I'm not really bothered by the skirts and dresses. It's not as if I have to deal with frills and lace, and even then, my first reaction would probably be to squeal at how pretty it is. Wearing it might become a bit uncomfortable, but the things girls sacrifice for fashion, no? It wasn't difficult for me to once again begin a habit of putting on clothing considered feminine, in fact, it never even registered as an issue to me. I did it all my last life, what was the problem now?

There weren't any problems. Except for this one. This teensy, eensy, _little_ problem called I am now a male.

Woot.

Yeah. And there's another problem I forgot to mention. The cousin to the previous issue I mentioned. It's called this is the early nineteen hundreds where ideas about gender norms are about as flexible as prison bars. It was only in the twenty-first century that I know of things changed a bit. I mean, there were fluctuations but I never paid attention to those because it never was my problem. I had a life to live and beyond a passing knowledge on it, I never looked further. Except now it is definitely my problem.

Well, it wasn't as if I was particularly into dressing up in my previous life. I mean, dresses are _awesome_ don't get me wrong. But they _are_ horribly inconvenient when you are trying to outrun your siblings to hoard all the chocolate ice cream. I much preferred my more comfortable clothes that had plain sleeves and pants.

Convincing myself that I am now Tom didn't take much. Putting it into practice, however, was an issue. 

Because, well, it didn't even register that what I was doing _was_ cross-dressing. I can't believe I forgot about such a small detail. To be fair, I am only one so people just find me odd and adorable. The girls who make up my friend group only had good intentions when they started donating clothes to dress me like them. I went along with it. They didn't know any better. _I_ didn't know any better. The same can not be said for the staff of Wool's, some of them have _very_ vocal opinions on the matter.

Which leads to my current predicament, the Matron arguing with Martha while I get a front-row seat to this poorly-made drama.

"Tom is a_ boy!_ He can not be corrupted by this! This _atrocity!_"

Here, the Matron does a weird wiggle with her arms pointing at my kilted state. Yes, I am calling the skirt I'm wearing a kilt. It's a kilt now. It was supposed to be a kilt. I was pretending to be a caveman with the girls in yet another one of our strange expeditions. This is why I am not wearing a shirt. A novel experience, men can be seen shirtless without too much fuss. 

Martha, face red and mouth set into a grim line, stubbornly crosses her arms,

'"Well, _I_ don't see the problem of him playing with the girls! None of them mean any harm! He's just a young lad who doesn't know any better!"

The Matron splutters, infuriated,

"That does not excuse the fact that he is irregular! Freakish! He didn't even question why he isn't acting like all the other _proper_ boys! It must be his mother's influence."

I turn to glare at the matron. My previous mother did a _wonderful_ job of raising her youngest daughter, thank you very much. The mother of this life, Merope, may not have lived for very long but she wasn't a terrible person! Okay, yes, she drugged Riddle senior, but none of the orphanage staff know that. The Matron is only throwing shade because Merope was not the prettiest rose in the garden and I hate her for it.

"He's one! What, did you think he would be a genius?! Tom is _not a freak!_ No one needs to be punished, they just need an explanation!" Martha pleads, but aggressively. She's very aggressively pleading. A strange dichotomy.

Unfortunately for her, I can determine with a large amount of certainty that I _am_ a genius now, previous life aside. Something about having an eidetic memory. The first time I discovered that particular trait had me floored. If only I had it in my previous life, it would have made my schooling so much easier.

"Fine! You go explain to them why their deviancy can not continue and get him to play with the boys from now on!" the Matron huffs, sweat beading on her forehead, "They'll straighten him out."

She stomps out of the room and immediately, the entire female population of the orphans peeks inside, eyes worried.

"Is Tom alright?" Alice asks Martha hesitantly, "We're very sorry."

Caterina burst into tears,

"We don't want him to leave! Please let him play with us!"

Martha only sighs,

"I'm sorry all of you have to go through this."

She kneels down, motioning for the girls to come closer,

"But the Matron is right. Boys are supposed to be boys and girls, girls."

I snort,

"What is the difference anyway?"

Three months has done more than enough to solidify my speaking capabilities. I swear I am smarter in this life, something to do with magic or my brain maybe. I mean, eidetic memory is a big change. 

Normally, I wouldn't have cared. Who cares what I wear? I certainly didn't. If it was comfortable, clean, and not inappropriate, I would wear it. But this? This is _war_. Who is the Matron to scare young girls not even in their double digits to tears? Who is she to say that I can't interact with them?

And Martha? I just lost a huge portion of my respect for her. Yes, she is a product of society and honestly, she might not know any better, but a small part of me is disappointed.

I miss home. Life was easier then. None of this magic thing, none of the regression.

Okay, nope, I'm keeping the magic. That stuff is _awesome._

"Tom, boys are very different from girls," Martha pats me on the head, "Don't you want to grow up big and strong?"

I glare, which comes out as a cute pout, but I've experimented on my magic more so if I really try, I can summon an aura of doom around me. Anyone within a two feet radius will feel an inexplicable sense of paranoia and apprehension. I have magic, I don't need to grow up "big and strong". If anyone crosses me I can magic them into oblivion. I haven't been able to test the sheer destructive force of my magic or the full capacity of it yet, but I have a feeling it is going to be abnormal.

Martha is too nice for me to subject her to mental torture though. I can only keep the sensation up purposely for a few minutes, but I suspect that if I ever become capable of holding it up indefinitely...the consequences for the victims might become rather horrific. It definitely counts as a type of torture. However, just because I can become a beacon of despair, it does not mean people are incapable of running away from me and out of reach.

Martha frowns for a moment, but it quickly dissipates when she pinches my cheeks,

"Why, look at you! I just know you will grow up to be a lady killer."

No thanks. No killing women. I'm sure my sisters and mother will rise from whatever realm they are in to kill me if I did that.

Also. I am one year old. Ew.

With that, I am hauled over to the boys for playtime.

Too bad no one here can account for magic.

* * *

I have decided that I should not grow out my hair to impossible proportions overnight. That would be too obvious. I don't need an exorcism to be done one me. Those things are traumatizing and I wouldn't be allowed to eat or drink during it.

There is, however, a brand new washing machine that was donated to the orphanage by a generous sponsor.

I am willing to bet if I mix the colorful fabric with the white ones and add a pinch of magic, I can come up with...interesting results. So people think pink is a girl's color? I may not have a liking for it, but for the sake of justice, I will endure it.

* * *

Maybe I should find more pastel-colored clothes, I like them. The same can not be said for the Matron and a lot of the boys. Alice is ecstatic that her boring grey dresses have been "accidentally" dyed a pale periwinkle. It _is_ her birthday after all, I am a good friend sometimes. I can't afford to buy her a present so I'll settle for this.

* * *

The Matron has to go. She yelled at all the staff for messing up the laundry for two whole _hours_. That woman is a menace. I know for a fact she is underpaying the staff and only using the bare minimum of the funds to feed everyone. Abagail is too skinny, the younger kids are always hungry and she often feeds her share to them. She's only thirteen. Jack wore through his right shoe the other day and it still hasn't been replaced.

* * *

Her clothes always end up in unfortunate accidents. She always trips over air, but still blames the staff for failing to clean properly. She yells at the children for being messy. The collective orphans ended up in tears from a particularly violent incident.

Like I stated before, the Matron _has to go._

"Tom? Are you alright?" Martha asks worriedly, biting her lip, "You've been very quiet, "The Matron didn't scare you, did she?"

I turn to her, eyes hard and she flinches,

"No."

And that was that. This is no longer a gender issue, this is _abuse._ I originally only planned a few pranks, nothing serious. But now? Now I want her _gone. _What fool thought _that woman_ should be left in charge of an orphanage?

* * *

"We're friends, right?" Alice fidgets beside me and quails when I look at her. I blink, what just happened?

"Of course," I say calmly, "What's wrong?"

Alice doesn't meet my gaze,

"You've been really scary lately, Tom. _Things_ happen around you and you're always really angry."

And I don't know what to say to that, so I settle for,

"Don't worry, Alice. Everything will be fine. I'll make sure of it."

* * *

"You are unusual, Tom," Abagail remarks calmly from her seat, shifting so she shields me and a few other children from the wrath of the Matron. As usual, I'm glaring stonily at the woman. Abagail's comment distracts me.

"Did he send you?"

I frown, what does she mean by "he"?

Seeing my confusion, she explains,

"I have always been told that God works in mysterious ways."

And looking at her as she is, I can tell how tired she must feel. The meals she skipped and the extra chores she took from the children who were far too young to attempt anything of the sort have taken its toll. That was why I always made sure to finish my chores, no matter how difficult. If I had to cheat a little, well, no one has to know and practice is always good. I can not afford to have accidental magic.

"I do not believe in a God," I tell her.

"Do something," she whispers back, "please."

* * *

The Matron trips down a flight of stairs, only to fall through one of the steps after landing on it awkwardly. She quits the next day while in the hospital. Abagail gives me a wide-eyed look of disbelief at breakfast, but she does not manage to get me alone to talk. The low hum of voices in the mess hall is filled with apprehension and excitement. I think it is safe to say that no one will miss the Matron.

When we are done eating, Martha and a few of the other staff corrals all of the children neatly into rows. Clothilde claps her hand twice decisively,

"Children, meet the new Matron, Mrs. Cole."

"Good morning, Matron," and "Hello, ma'am" we all chorused in response, discordant.

She sniffs,

"No order!? Disgraceful! I will make sure to instill into your little minds how to act properly. You will address me as Mrs. Cole at all times."

She later called in a priest because of the rumors of the orphanage being haunted by spirits after what happened to the previous Matron.

I do not like her, but she gets things done. The funds are managed with obsessive accuracy. All of the children's chores are reassigned. A curfew is established and a schedule is set. The children are finally taught properly and sent to school instead of "homeschooled" to save money.

It means I finally get my hands on some books. Sweet, sweet books. Not even death will extinguish my love for thee. Ahem. Moving on.

Abagail sits down beside me with a plop, book in hand and held out to me like an offering. I glance at it curiously, it's not a children's book, but a copy of _The Prince_ by Niccolò Machiavelli. How did she even manage to find this book? It looks brand new!

"Here, as thanks for what you did," she smiles.

I stare,

"I didn' do nothin'."

"I know you don't speak like that, I've heard you talking like an adult," Abagail frowns, "I used up all my allowance money I had saved up for years to buy you this book, you know?"

"Don't want it," I grouse, I need to get better at this manipulating people and hiding my magic. It is only that I am well-liked by the orphanage staff and children that I don't begin freaking out about Abagail's insistence that I've _done_ something. While she doesn't explain, I know what she is talking about. What everyone has been talking about for the past month. 

The stairs are in very good condition, the repairmen had said in confusion. All of them except for the one that the previous Matron fell on. 

_"Rotted clean through! Wouldja look a' tha'? Jus' this one too! No way no one noticed!?"_

"Of course you want it, I saw how you looked at it earlier," she wiggles it in front of me, "You want me to waste my allowance money by refusing?"

I sigh,

"Fine."

She spends the next five minutes staring at me as I abandon my previous book for _The Prince__._

"You know, I didn't think you would actually do something," she muses, looking off into the distance, "I was just desperate for something, _anything _to happen."

I don't look up, still avidly soaking up the words on the pages,

"You must be out of your mind to believe that, I, a mere child, am able to do anything like you are insinuating."

Abagail laughs,

"Look at you! Talking like a "mere child"!"

"Nope, just one that _reads__,_" I counter with an innocent smile, "Martha says I'm really smart."

"No, I don't think so," Abagail taps the wooden table absentmindedly, "That's not what you are at all."

"What are you trying to imply," I narrow my eyes at her. 

She jumps,

"Sorry! I didn't mean it like that! You are just...special. Somehow. You can make the impossible happen."

I raise an eyebrow, lamenting on how I got myself into this situation. Honestly, could this get any worse? I have to do damage control at this rate.

"Unh huh. Because I am totally a magical being of great importance who needs sacrifices of lives every year."

There. Perfect. The whole, stick the truth in people's face as an impossibility while covered with a bunch of red herrings to throw people off.

Abagail looks thunderstruck for a while before she realizes I was joking. I wipe a hand down my face. Why is this my life?

She suddenly speaks up again,

"I had asked you if you were sent by God, but you said you didn't believe in him."

"Atheism is not always very popular, but it exists," I retort dryly.

She waves my words aside impatiently,

"No! No! That's not what I mean. I've always believed in God because that was what the adults told me to believe."

I gave her a slow clap,

"Congratulations, you are confirmed to be a child. That is what children do. They absorb the beliefs of their role models."

Abagail puts her hands down on the table purposefully and leans toward me, a glint in her eye,

"But that's just it! I believed it because I was told to. What proof did I actually have that God exists? _None._ I prayed for things to change for _five years_ since I came here. _Nothing happened. _But you? _You are capable of doing things._"

I scooch away from her and she sits down triumphantly like she has figured something out.

"I think you need a visit to the doctor," I try to say kindly. This wasn't even about her being too observant for my liking, that kind of obsession that I just saw in her eyes is not healthy.

"I thought that if I was good and did what I was told, my parents would come back," Abagail said bitterly as if she hadn't heard my suggestion, "I was a fool. Praying did nothing. Being good did nothing."

"Get to the point," I say at last, more than ready to run for the hills if she turned out to be crazy. How did no one catch this?

"You can do things," she goes back to smiling calmly, "and _I_ will help you."

Oh. I see. I have become a cult leader.

"No thanks."

I really do need to get better at manipulating people and magic. It's a pity I can't go to the library by myself for a few more years yet. Being only one makes life terribly inconvenient.

"I will figure out a way to make you agree," Abagail says with confidence.

That does not sound good. 

"Only if you remember," I say softly.

Abagail frowns,

"What did you say?"

I don't answer, mind already focusing on drawing up the sensation of cool water. My body tingles as the magic wells up from my core, rippling all the way to my extremities. Now, I just have to visualize what I want. The intent is important. A misstep will be disastrous.

"Tom? Tom! What are you doing?!"

Abagail's voice is loud. I try to ignore it as well as the part of me that's screaming out how immoral all of this is.

I open my eyes and contemplate the girl before me for a moment,

"Forget."

Her eyes widen in horror and then narrow in vicious anger before falling blank.

"Forget you ever asked me for help, I was huddled in the corner like everyone else. Forget that I have ever been strange. I am an utterly normal child. Smart. Independent. And I prefer to be alone. Forget your suspicions about my abilities for I have none. Forget this conversation. Forget that you bought me this book. The limit of our interaction up until this point is that we spoke a few times about inane topics and exchanged pleasantries. We do not know each other beyond that."

I pour all of those words into the string that I wound around Abagail's mind, letting them travel down the strand like beads of dew on a spider web. With each directive, she becomes blanker and blanker. Once satisfied that I have done enough to weave the strings in a confusing muddle in Abagail's mind, I say one last order,

"If you ever do remember, you are not allowed to communicate what I have done to anyone. You are not to communicate any events about me to anyone before this point. You will ignore every unusual occurrence that happens around me or that I incite."

The words fall into place like the rest and I carefully snap the magic still connecting us like a thread, tucking the end in and tying it to prevent it from unraveling. I slip off of the table and walk away to my room that I share with a few other boys, contemplating how I will hide the book. It would not do for people to discover my unusual reading material.

I look down at it. Maybe I can change the cover?

My hands tingle and colors bleed across the cover, making it look worn and plain.

"Fairy Tales by the Brothers Grimm?" I smile, nostalgia blooming, "A good choice. Now, everyone, ignore that I own a book."

Another ripple and then the magic is still.

I stick the book between the mattress and the bed frame. No one cleans under there.

* * *

When March finally rolled around, I allow myself to be herded outside by Grace, one of the women who watch over the children like Martha. I had refused to step even a single foot outside ever since the end of November last year. I hate the cold with a passion. Why did my birthday have to be in December? Martha, since she is great, gave me a larger allowance as a birthday present. Why is she giving a one-year-old an allowance? I have no idea.

I had sharpened my skills slowly but surely, realizing that I have limited time. Unlike in my previous life, _I_ wanted to do things. Accomplish things. I was sheltered, lived a cushy life protected by the love of family. I always had a safety net when I fell.

Now? I am an orphan. I have people that take care of me but none of them can be substituted for parents. I didn't want to stay here my entire life. I also know exactly how terrible people can be. Well, to a certain extent. The previous Matron made sure of that.

And.

I am aware of my own power. Mildly terrifying how _easy_ it is to hurt people with it. To control them with a simple push of intent with a little magic behind it and watch people tumble into line to heed my whims. I accidentally wiped everyone's memory at nine months. I injured a woman by tripping her down the stairs. I erased the memories of a thirteen-year-old girl.

And I got away with it too. Everyone is still convinced I am a lovable boy. Bright and a little difficult, but liked all the same.

I realized that I didn't have any real friends. The people I made friends with were there solely for the purpose of studying human behavior and the best way to exploit all of it. I have the mind of a teenager as a baby and I can not tell anyone. 

I am alone.

That puts a bit of a damper on things.

This is so sad, Alexa, play Despacito. What? The internet still isn't extant yet? There are no memes? Damn it.

Okay, so I am not a good person. If my previous life is any indication since all of my Pottermore House tests always landed me in Slytherin, I am going to end up in Slytherin. That is not to say Slytherins are not good people. But I have ambition. I want to live and make the world better if I can. I want to have fun on the way.

Am I cunning? Well, I'm _trying_ to be cunning. But scheming is difficult and a skill that takes honing. Still, I feel that it comes a little too easily now. Before ten months, I was terrible at it. After the first ten months of my life? A smile here, an offer to help there, use some neutral words and seem ready to please, everything falls into place easily. But planning out what to do with people once I had control over them is an entirely different matter.

I'm definitely learning faster than I used to.

Well, now I am allowed outside with supervision, soon enough I will be able to go off on my own and practice some more magic.

How long will my morals last, I wonder. Although, the better question might be how many of my morals remain.

_~Ssstupid humansss, alwaysss ssso loud. Ssshhh.~_

I look down in the grass I flopped over on. 

A snake. Joy.

_~You bite me and I make you regret it.~_

_~It ssspeaksss!~_

It's still only nine in the morning, in other words, too early and I should just take a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh boy. This went from funny to actual plot shenanigans happening. I hope it is still funny.   
I might revise this later.


End file.
